a bit of difference?
And what the hell was Brentwood doing?
Tony “ The Toad ” Totelli was nervous. One of the advantages of being in the command tank with the ambitious Colonel Brentwood was the fact that he could overhear all the communications that the colonel sent and received. Tony had heard the order to halt and then heard Brentwood mutter and swear that it was the stupidest piece-of-shit order he had ever received. Brentwood said they were within spitting distance of Berlin. Hell, for all Tony knew they might actually be in the damned city.
Certainly, they were on the outskirts of the German capital. The wooded and semi-built-up nature of the area was changing and there were more and more buildings and homes. Also, he could see an open area that the colonel had assured himself was the beginning of Gatow Airport.
“Sir, do you want me to stop?” Tony asked hopefully.
“Not yet,” the colonel muttered. Tony could barely hear him over the rumble of the Sherman’s engine. He sighed and kept the tank slowly moving forward. Tony was a good driver and that was one of the reasons the colonel had selected him. While Tony’s squat and dark physical appearance accounted for his nickname, his short size made him ideal for a tank with a full colonel jammed in along with additional communications equipment on top of its normal crew. Tony just didn’t take up much room.
Tony wished he was back home in New Jersey, where the vehicles he had driven were expensive cars. Unfortunately, those cars always belonged to someone else, and the owners had objected to Tony’s taking them and selling them, which was why he found himself in the army four years ago at the age of eighteen. The judge had given him a choice: enlist or go to jail. To compound Tony’s problem, Pearl Harbor had occurred while he was finishing basic training. Over the years, Tony had seen the good and the bad of army life, and it seemed to him that this little foray of Brentwood’s seemed downright silly, even dangerous, under the circumstances.
In Tony’s opinion, the colonel was disobeying orders from higher up. He had heard Brentwood explain on the radio, to some captain in the group, that all he was going to do was make sure the area was safe before halting, but everyone knew that was just an excuse for continuing on. Orders or not, Brentwood was going into Berlin if only a few feet, and he’d take his chances on getting his ass chewed later. In another of Tony’s opinions, Brentwood doubtless thought that a shot at glory would far outweigh any risk of disciplinary action. Brentwood wanted to run for Congress after the war, and being the first American in Berlin would be a good way to start. There had been no further radio contact for several minutes and Tony had the damndest feeling that Brentwood had disabled the radio.
Tony was driving with the hatch open and his head and shoulders outside. This gave him an excellent view forward, although he could not see the eleven other tanks behind or the twenty lightly armored half-tracks that, full of infantry, followed the tanks. The area had been quiet and he was not particularly concerned about snipers.
“Hey, Toad.” It was Ernie the gunner. “What do you see?”
“Eva Braun dancing naked and calling out for you to fuck her,” Tony responded. If Ernie wanted to see what was in front, all he had to do was open the turret hatch and look. Fortunately for Tony, Brentwood usually ignored such idle banter between his crew. Brentwood was not totally stupid and knew it helped keep them sane.
The tank moved around a charred building, and there was a great deal of open space before it. In the distance, Tony could see a number of shapes and he stopped the tank abruptly, causing everyone to lurch forward and swear. “Tanks!” he yelled.
“Jesus,” Brentwood said. “How many do you make, Corporal?”
Tony started counting and also started shaking. “I see thirty but there may be more coming through the dust.”
“Where the hell did the Germans get them?” Brentwood muttered. There was a degree of silence as the rest of the column had halted behind Tony’s lead tank.
“Sir,” Tony said, an unsettling fear filling him. “They aren’t German. Those are Russians. That silhouette belongs to a T34.”
“Bullshit,” the colonel said. “The Reds can’t be this far west. Those are German Panthers, not T34s. They just look a lot alike.”
Tony admitted that possibility. Their silhouettes were very similar from a distance. A spotter plane radioed that a large number of tanks was headed toward them, but didn’t specify nationality.
Brentwood prudently ordered them to take up defensive positions. What had started out as a public relations stunt now had the potential to be a disaster.
Tony was shaking. This had all the earmarks of a bloody mistake. “Sir, I still think those are Commies.”
Brentwood was puzzled. The dust kicked up by the approaching tanks obscured any insignia. “We can’t take chances. They have to be German. We’ll treat them as if they are the enemy.”
And even if they are, we’re in deep shit, Tony thought. Even though many of the American Sherman tanks had been improved with a higher-velocity main gun, they still didn’t stand a chance against a Panther. Or a T34 for that matter.
The unknown tanks were in range. Tony saw a flash of light. Was it gunfire? Were the other tanks shooting at them?
“Goddamn Germans are shooting at us,” Brentwood yelled.
“I still think they’re Russians, Colonel,” Tony said.
“Then why the hell are they shooting at us and why the hell are you arguing with me?”
Tony winced. He had gone too far. Now there would be no reasoning with the colonel.
“Open fire,” Brentwood ordered, and a dozen American guns blasted. At long range, only a couple of enemy tanks were hit and they weren’t damaged.
At that moment, the spotter plane’s pilot confirmed that the tanks were Russians and might be shooting at a German position. Brentwood paled and Tony declined to say I told you so.
Brentwood grabbed him by the shoulder. “Toad, get the hell out there with a flag while I contact division.”
Though reluctant to leave the relative security of the tank’s armored womb, Tony clambered out onto the ground and pulled out the bag that contained a good-sized American flag and a collapsible pole. Many of these had been distributed so they could identify themselves visually should the need arise. Tony thought the need was now absolutely imperative and scrambled to connect it to the pole. He looked around and saw crewmen from a number of American tanks and half-tracks doing the same thing. There was a decent breeze and the flags unfurled themselves so that even a blind Russian could see them.
The Russian tanks continued to close on them and he could now see they had infantry trotting alongside. He counted more than the thirty tanks he first saw and many more were still coming into view, and they were definitely within range. Why hadn’t they shot at them? Were they concerned about killing Americans? Christ, he hoped so.
Suddenly, the Russian tanks opened fire. Dozens of guns barked, their sound barely preceding the stunning concussion of their shells impacting around him.
Tony clambered onto the hull as the tank began to back up. He could hear Brentwood screaming into the radio that he was being attacked by Russians. Tony was just about to climb down the hatch into his tank when the shock of a near miss threw him to the ground and rolled him away from his Sherman. He tried to rise again, but his tank took a hit. It lifted off the ground, then settled with a crash. For a moment he thought he was dead. He wasn’t, but his tank had been killed. It was burning furiously and the intense heat drove him back. The turret hatch opened and a living torch tried to crawl out. Tony watched in horror as the blackened, burning thing with no face moved a little, twitched, and stopped halfway out. Tony thought it was Ernie, but he couldn’t be sure. Asshole Brentwood was doubtless still cooking inside the tank.
He gagged from the sight and the stench of burning flesh. He crawled farther away from the Sherman and then looked around. A half-dozen other American tanks were also in flames, as were a couple of half-tracks. The sound of ammunition exploding inside the Shermans told him he was ungodly fortunate to be alive. The remainder of the American vehicles were running away from the one-sided battle as quickly as they could. He looked at the rapidly closing Reds and didn’t see any of their tanks on fire or stopped.
There were some other Americans lying on the ground around him. Most of them were quite still and only a couple were moving their arms or trying to rise. Tony checked himself and realized that he was basically unhurt. Bruises and cuts didn’t count in a disaster like this.
